


They Know

by SpicedGold



Series: Itachi/Shisui One-Shot Collection [5]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Gen, just how i like it, just sad, not really shipping, with a side of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 04:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14441841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicedGold/pseuds/SpicedGold
Summary: I came up with most of this while I was driving and then had to write it in a rush so I didn't forget all the feelings. So, this is a quick drabble, probably not as polished as it should be, and definitely not as well planned as it should be. Apologies for any grammar/ spelling errors.





	They Know

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with most of this while I was driving and then had to write it in a rush so I didn't forget all the feelings. So, this is a quick drabble, probably not as polished as it should be, and definitely not as well planned as it should be. Apologies for any grammar/ spelling errors.

It takes Itachi hours before he summons the strength to get up and leave the waterfall. The ground beneath him is stained with blood and tears and horrid memories that burn behind his eyes and flash white whenever he blinks.

He makes his way home unhurried. Nothing seems to have consequence anymore. Nothing seems important. The world is dark and painful. He gets inside his room without being noticed, after pausing at Sasuke’s door.

The rest of the night passes in an indistinct blur. He doesn’t cry anymore. He thinks he’s used up all his tears, maybe forever.

When morning comes, he is gone before anyone else is awake.

His heart hurts, and its not something he can deal with alone. The person he would usually go to is no longer an option. Half of his very being is gone, dead, left him alone, and he seeks out the next best thing.

There is early morning dew still clinging to the lawn. The world is yellow with sunshine. It smells fresh and alive, and wrong.

He doesn’t knock on the door. He waits, silent and still, until he hears her approach. When she opens the door, she meets his eyes instantly. No words pass between them. She takes one look at his morose expression, and shouts back into the house, “I’m going out for a while.”

He is grateful that she doesn’t ask what happened.

Izumi sits silently at his side, deep in the Uchiha training grounds, where no one will overhear them. She doesn’t try to get him to talk, doesn’t question anything, just sits with one hand laid over his. He wants to lean into her, like he does – did – with Shisui, but he can’t quite bring himself to try.

He turns his thoughts over, trying to get them aligned. This is the first time his mind has been so stricken.

The words are surprisingly difficult to get out. Itachi is not used to struggling. He stammers, uncharacteristically emotional, “Sh-Shisui is dead . . .”

He feels her stiffen at his side. He closes his eyes, head hanging, taking in deep breaths through his nose to try to keep everything under control. Control is sliding out of reach, and he hates it. He wants it back. He wants something grounding.

He wants Shisui.

Izumi shifts enough to wrap her arms around him. It is a common enough occurrence for her, she has always eked out any opportunity to garner physical affection from him, and he doesn’t pull away instinctively as he does with everyone else. _Almost everyone._

Her touch is welcome and warm, and he leans into her. She isn’t Shisui – too bird-bone light, too flowery in smell – but he wants to be held, so he makes do with what is offered. His brain makes the comparison whether he wants it to or not.

If it were Shisui, there would be kisses on his hair, and he stops himself from pressing his lips to her neck like instinct demands.

“Are you hurt?” She doesn’t ask ‘are you okay’, and he’s grateful for that, because he doesn’t want to lie to her. She deserves better than that. She deserves better than him.

He shakes his head. The sharp pain in his chest makes him feel like a liar, but it’s nothing she can fix.

Things have always been peaceful with her. She is a rock in a stormy sea, always gentle and patient. She calms him, offers a respite from the usual pressures of life. Shisui is – was, _had been_ – fire and passion and torrential storms. He made Itachi’s heart race and blood burn, and while he still _wants_ Shisui, he realises that Izumi is better for him right now. She soothes the wounds Shisui left.

He sits up a little straighter, unwilling to remain vulnerable for long. He has already let it go on for too long. She studies him closely, pale skin and dark anguished eyes, trying to figure out what he is thinking.

He is thinking she isn’t Shisui.

She holds him the same way, a hand on each of his shoulders, and looks at him the same way, from under thick dark lashes with eyes that glow love and comfort. He can see her intention.

It’s purely comforting, nothing more than a balm to soothe, nothing like Shisui, but still . . .

He turns away when she tries to kiss him. He doesn’t feel he deserves the affection, and he wants her to be Shisui, anyway. She is not affronted, just pulls him close again. She understands.

He closes his eyes against her shoulder.

“What are they going to ask you to do?” She knows he’s caught between the clan and Anbu. She knows part of his struggle; they talk often, and they’ve talked this topic to death and found no clear answers.

“I don’t know.” It isn’t quite the truth. He has an idea. He tries not to think about it.

Izumi senses the lie. She prompts him on with a shuddering question, “Would Anbu fight back first?”

He just nods.

“They wouldn’t ask you to attack your own family,” she says, but her conviction wavers. “Would they?”

He stares at her, wordless and hopeless and filled with sorrow.

She edges away a fraction, a frown creasing her face. After what feels like an eternity of contemplation, she turns back to him.

“If they ask, come to me first,” she insists, dark eyes pleading. “Don’t make a decision without speaking to me. We can talk it through, _together_.”

He wants Shisui again.

“Please, just come to me first.”

 

He doesn’t. He makes the decision alone. He has to make it alone.

He spends the night tossing restlessly in his bed. The morning brings no relief either. His eyes are aching, his body lax with exhaustion. His parents notice. They trade glances over breakfast, and his mother asks what is wrong.

He wishes he could answer. He doesn’t. He keeps his eyes down. He forces himself to eat, because he needs the fuel. It would be suicide to attempt his mission without eating all day. The irony of that is not lost on him.

When his father prepares to leave, he lays a hand on his oldest son’s shoulder. It is reassuring, but for a brief moment panic flares in Itachi’s chest, his mind inexplicably assuming _they know_. He quells the feeling swiftly.

Fugaku says nothing, just lets his hand linger a moment longer, before leaving the kitchen.

Itachi follows soon after. He wants to get out before Sasuke is awake. He doesn’t think he has the strength to endure his brother, not with everything weighing on him. He will break, and he can’t break yet.

He takes his time at the door, putting his shoes on, adjusting his uniform, fidgeting with his sword. He knows this will be the last time he does it, and he wants to savour it. His forehead protector is still in his hand. He only notices his mother behind him at the last second, nearly startling forwards as she embraces him gently from behind. His grip tightens, the cool metal pressing hard into his palm.

Mikoto doesn’t say anything either. She does nothing more than hold him gently. He feels her warm breath on his neck, and suddenly wishes the day was over. He hates waiting. He hates anticipation. And he hates that this is the _last time_ , the last time for hugs and breakfast and getting ready and waking up with his family.

He turns without forethought, twisting suddenly in Mikoto’s grasp to face her, pressing his face into her shoulder and gripping both arms around her waist tightly. There is a sob that almost breaks loose from him, but he holds it down, because no one is allowed to know that _something is very wrong._

It is unusual for him to display physical affection, but his mother says nothing, and the spike of panic returns. _She knows, she knows –_

She draws back a step, both hands on his shoulders, and places a gentle kiss to his forehead. It melts something hard inside Itachi’s throat, and he takes a step back.

“Be careful,” she says. It’s a normal warning, one he’s heard from her often. It means something more today.

He nods mutely, lifting his forehead protector up and preparing to tie it.

She stops him with nothing more than a finger against his wrist. He waits, statue still.

Mikoto presses another kiss to his forehead, smiling softly and maternally, dark eyes warm. “Last one,” she says, and he leaves then in a morose blur, before any other part of him breaks.

She _knows_ , and he hates that.

He spends the day watching his brother from afar. Sasuke is aloof with his classmates, haughty in his expressions and almost superior in how he carries himself. He will grow into an excellent ninja, and Itachi mourns the thought of not being there to see it happen. He regrets every day he brushed Sasuke off. He wishes the time could be made up somehow.

The day crawls by. Danzo gives him a significant look when they pass during the day. Itachi pretends he doesn’t see it.

It is only when night falls, and the village begins settling into darkness, that he returns to the Uchiha compound. He goes first to a familiar door. He waits until he senses her move, then he knocks, so that he is certain she will be the one to answer the door.

Izumi blinks at him, automatically smiling. “Itachi.”

Something in his face must give him away, because her expression falls, and he sees her grip on the door tighten.

He shouldn’t tell her. He’s on a mission, its classified, and he’s breaking every rule of being a ninja just by standing in front of her. He doesn’t need to tell her. She guesses first.

Her eyes drop slowly down to the floor. He sees her swallow. “Is it just you?”

“Just me,” he confirms. He wonders if she thinks its better or worse if its just him. “That way the Leaf remains innocent.”

“And you take the blame,” she finishes. She looks up at him, unreadable. “And after? Do you die, too?”

He hesitates then. He is not sure what he wants his answer to be.

It makes things easier, to start with her. She wouldn’t need to see the rest of it, she wouldn’t need to see just what a monster he could be. His heart aches with ‘what ifs’ and ‘if only’s.

He can make it easy for her, too. It doesn’t have to hurt, and doesn’t have to be violent. It’s the least he can offer. At least one friend can die comfortably. He wants Shisui _so badly._

 “What did . . . what did you want in life?” He asks carefully, well aware that the longer he draws this out the harder it is. On both of them. But he needs this time, to summon his courage, to come to terms with himself. To give her this last parting gift, a gentle death.

Izumi looks at him with sad eyes. “I wanted a life with you. I knew I wouldn’t get that. I just . . . I didn’t think this was the way I wouldn’t get it . . .”

He almost loses his nerve, almost breaks down and gives up, because _he can’t do this_ , not so soon after Shisui. His eyes are burning red, and he knows every second of this night to come will be seared into his memory forever. It is a hollow comfort, a perverse sense of justice, that he knows he will suffer just as much.

From inside the house, there is a voice. “Izumi? Are you still there?”

“I’ll be done in a minute, Mom,” she calls back, forcing levity into her voice. When she looks at Itachi again, her voice wavers. “. . . Everyone?”

He knows what she means. She is thinking of her mother, of her father. She knows the answer, but doesn’t want to face it. The clock is ticking, and Itachi needs to move on. “Everyone,” he confirms softly.

That had been the deal. That had been the price to keep his baby brother alive. One life, in exchange for many. He doesn’t think about what type of person that makes him.

Izumi’s eyes fill with tears. But, steadfastly, she holds them back. She takes another step towards him, laying her head against his chest, arms around his waist, and just holds him for a moment. His heart is beating rapid and strong, audible even under the thick Anbu vest.

“It’s okay,” she mumbles. Her words are slightly muffled against him. She is shaking violently. “Itachi, it’s okay. It’s _okay_.”

It isn’t, but he doesn’t contradict her. He stands still, head dropping down slightly to lean against her as well. It will never be okay, but he knows what she means. She cannot stop him, so there is no point in trying to fight him on this. It is better to leave things as they are, gentle and peaceful, than to cause a scene. She doesn’t want to fuss, because she doesn’t want her parents to hear.

Still shaking, she pulls back just enough to look at him, tears streaking her cheeks. Its all the opportunity he needs, just a brief meeting of his Sharingan to her hopeless black eyes.

She feels the world fall away, into something pleasant, something perfect. Something she always wanted, a life with them side by side and growing old together. There is a moment where she knows she should be panicking, she should be fighting, because she knows a genjutsu when she sees one, but the moment passes too easily under Itachi’s hold.

She knows he will tear her mind apart. He will kill her by the time he is done. But it doesn’t hurt, and the illusion is beautiful, and through it all she hears a whisper, a solemn promise. “It won’t hurt. _They won’t even know_.”

She is fading fast, mind slipping away into nothing as she leans against him. But she manages to smile against his chest, feeling the damp spots her tears have made, and whisper back, “Thank you.”


End file.
